S T I L L L I F E
"…I can never bring myself to finish it."
He painted in slow, steady movements on the otherwise pristine canvas, enjoying the solitude. On the table before him sat an apple, a golden goblet, a bunch of grapes, and a crystal ball from Divination, all heaped atop an artfully disarrayed silk scarf. The sunlight streaming through the large, slightly dirty window shone in bright highlights and cast dramatic shadows. It was early in the morning, early enough that he would be surprised to find anyone else awake, let alone poking their heads into unused classrooms. Unlike many of his classmates, however, the boy enjoyed the morning, the slow evolution of light from darkness. He hadn't slept at all the night before, and so with slight frustration had climbed out of bed and retrieved his paints.
With careful strokes, he laid down the base colors and shapes of the items. He had begun adding lighter tones to the apple when the door creaked open and a bushy head revealed itself. The boy did not turn away from his painting; he saw Hermione Granger's face reflected in the crystal ball. His brush paused, and he asked in a soft, toneless voice, "What are you doing here?"
There was a long moment of silence before she replied, during which he added the shadows to the apple.
"I--I like to come to this classroom sometimes in the morning, to write in my journal."
Not answering save for a nod, he painted in the core of the shadow under the fruit, and then, in slow circles, added the lighter shades around it.
"What are you doing?"
"Painting." he replied flatly.
"Oh." she stepped closer, examining his work over his shoulder, and he suppressed the desire to shield his canvas with his body, so she couldn't see.
"I was never any good at art, no matter how I tried," she continued, "but that's quite lifelike. You're good at that."
She sounded surprised, he noticed, and added shadows and imperfections to the multitude of grapes.
"I've had lessons, and plenty of practice." He was somewhat astonished to finding himself actually carrying on a civil conversation with Hermione Granger, of all people, but decided it wouldn't be worth his time to make her leave.
"Well, they certainly paid off. Do you like painting, then?"
Did she never stop asking questions? He doubted it. "I like painting. I hated the lessons."
"Why?"
"My teacher had me paint still lifes, over and over and over again. They're so boring. I wanted to paint glorious scenes of war, or pictures from my books, with great heroes, or places and events that only existed within my own head. Instead, I was stuck paining still lifes."
"But…isn't that a still life?"
"Yes," he said, and went about the slow process of highlighting the grapes, waiting as she processed his answer.
"So, you hate still lifes, yet you're up early to paint one of your own free will? Why not a war, or a picture from your books, or something you imagined?"
"Because I've been through a war, and it was anything but glorious. People died, were injured, lost loved ones. If I were to paint a war, people would turn away from the image in disgust, and if I were to paint it any other way, it would be a lie."
The cloth under the still life took shape, heavy tones in the folds and smoky shades of green where the sun struck it. An almost-dry brush added texture.
"Then why not a scene from a book?"
"Because the heroes in storybooks don't exist. The real heroes are the ones that don't get books written about them, who simply do what they believe to be right, despite what everyone else believes. They have potion stains on their hands, dirty hair, and they die doing what they believe in. But to confine a person like that to a mere square of canvas would be a disservice to them, and so I don't paint heroes."
He lined the goblet in gold, yellow glints of light and smudgy bronze shadows.
"Then something you imagined?"
"Oh, the things I imagined. I imagined myself surrounded by friends, in a land free of war, with my father proud of me and my mother smiling. I imagined no pain, no hate, no lies. But my friends betrayed me, or I betrayed them, and the war is over but the hate's still there, and my father is dead and my mother insane. The things I imagined cannot come to pass, and I will not torment myself by laying them out before my eyes."
He paused in his painting to wash his brush, and then he began on the background in dark, heavy strokes, dark shadows and vague outlines of menacing things.
"So I paint still lifes. Some fruit, a goblet, a shiny thing to catch the eye and a cloth to add elegance. And in the background I paint deep shadows that took the things I used to want to paint, shadows of yesterday and looming for tomorrow. If you look too close, you see that the shadows have rotted the apple and the grapes are withered; that the goblet is dingy and the scarf is worn; and the crystal ball is empty: there is no future to be seen."
She remained behind him, watching silently, as he finished the background and laid down the brush.
"You're not done," Hermione said, perhaps a tough of reproof in her voice, gently laying a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened. "You forgot to paint the crystal ball with no future inside."
"No," he said. "I can never bring myself to finish it. No matter how many times I tell myself otherwise, I can never quite let go of the hope that I'll look at it to paint it and see something. I never do; never see anything, that is. And I can't bear to paint it empty."
"Then don't."
"What?"
"Imagine something. Find a hero. The future doesn't just appear; it's what you make it."
He mulled over this for several long moments, the lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
"I suppose."
She squeezed his shoulders, then released, and he could feel her warmth retreating as her footsteps moved to the door. It creaked as it opened as it had when she first entered, but she hesitated before she left.
"The thing about friends…the ones that betrayed you probably weren't really you r friends to begin with. But…if you're looking for some new ones, you know where to find me."
He didn't turn around, and his shoulders tightened in surprise, bur something deep in his chest untwisted with a wrench.
"Thanks." he said, softly, but with undertones of genuine gratitude.
Her reflection in the crystal ball nodded.
"See you around, Draco."
After she had left, he picked up his brush and mixed a bit of white with a dab of black and blue, and began shading the crystal ball. Thick, pale streaks formed the orb, layer after layer of paint, blending into a smooth surface. And with his smallest brush, deep inside the image of the ball, he painted a bushy haired head with a lingering smile.
HP's not mine.
A/N: just a quickie I wrote while I was supposed to be doing homework.
Painting is something I can see pureblood wizards being taught to do. I've done my fair share of painting (and then some) so I can understand the boredom of still lifes, which art teachers are far too fond of. The timing for this is a little off; it takes longer than this conversation would take to paint a decent still life, but I wanted the painting to progress with the conversation. Maybe it's magic.
This takes place post-war, in an AU where they all went back to school after Voldemort was dead. It kind of just came out. Originally it was going to be Harry painting, but I couldn't see him doing that, and Draco volunteered. He wrote his own dialogue, too--I was planning on him being more optimistic. Oh well--I suppose it turned out okay.
REWIEW!!
~Slvrstar